


Sanquette

by eachnighteachmorning



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Bad Decisions, Bad Parenting, Bad People, Multi, Murder Dads are not good dads, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Canon, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Usual Hannibal tags and warnings apply, this is a fic that explores dark themes, trigger warning for attempted assault and attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29174067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eachnighteachmorning/pseuds/eachnighteachmorning
Summary: Thank you to everyone who helped me throughout the five long months that I worked on this thing (aaannddd it's still not even finished...damn the awful perfectionist that I am...) and gave me questions, comments, inspo, tips and just supported me in general!It means a lot that people would even take a glance at my work. So much of me goes into these works, so sending them out into the world can be intimidating and it just means a lot to me that fandom, at its best, is such a communal space. Thank you again! I am so grateful for you, dear reader.Horror as a genre has always meant a great deal to me, as a woman, because it works so well as a vehicle to explore and represent the complicated, layered pain of female trauma. This started out as a self indulgent, fluffy fic about Hannibal and Will taking in a baby girl, but I felt as though leaving it at that would be a disservice to these characters I love, and to this show that means so much to me.There will be more to come, but in the meantime I would love to have discussions with you in the comments! Talk murder dads to me!It would make my heart very happy if you'd consider getting me a hot chocolate, if you enjoy my work: https://ko-fi.com/eachnighteachmorning
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	Sanquette

Sanquette – A culinary preparation of Occitania, based on blood. It is prepared at the very moment of the slaughter of poultry or lamb by bleeding…[ _sic_ ]

***

“A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.”

– Gillian Flynn, _Sharp Objects_

***

“All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.”

― Zora Neale Hurston, _Their Eyes Were Watching God_

***

_Lost in Hell, --Persephone,_

_Take her head upon your knee;_

_Say to her, "My dear, my dear,_

_It is not so dreadful here.”_

― Edna St. Vincent Millay, _Collected Poems_

* * *

I.

The drive back was uncomfortable, thick with tension. The swaddled bundle that nestled in Will Graham’s arms would occasionally stir or cry out to make herself known and he would _shh_ her with his finger. He didn’t want Hannibal to become irritated with her. They were both on thin ice with him.

“We can’t just leave her,” He pleaded to Hannibal, still covered in the fresh, warm blood of the child’s father, unable to bask in the kill when the matter of the baby was unsorted.

“We’ve already done her this kindness,” Hannibal stiffened, “Is it not enough that she’s been freed of having a monster for a father?”

“He beat his wife to death, Hannibal. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

There was a desperate urgency in Will’s voice, he and Hannibal both knew what it meant to grow up in isolation, to feel fundamentally unloved. It’s what, in part, made them the way they were.

“I could drop her off at the Parrish nearby. How’s that for a compromise, my love? She’d be educated in the convent school as she grows up, provided a nice family doesn’t adopt her.”

Will laughed bitterly, “Convent school? With religious indoctrination, and nuns who hit children with rods for tapping their pencils or looking out the window in class? She’d be better off dead.”

“That could be arranged,” Hannibal lowered his eyes towards the baby girl in the bassinet, “A mercy killing. I’d do it quickly, too. Painless. You could even leave the room, if it’s too much for you to bear.”

There was a beat of silence as Will collected his thoughts.

He remembered the first stray he ever took in for himself— _Blue_.

She appeared to be some sort of Rottweiler, Shepherd mix, no more than a few weeks old. She had sweet, twinkling black eyes. Half of her face was torn off by the car that took her mother’s life. Will was eight years old and his mother was gone too. He ran into the streets in pouring rain so he could carry her home.

Of course, Daddy told him it was useless.

_Her face is damn near gone, and she can’t barely breathe. She’s a goner, darlin’. Don’t you get your hopes up for her, now._

Will wrapped her in a warm towel from the dryer and fed her scraps from his dinner. He vowed to spend every waking moment of his summer vacation with her, even if it meant not getting to play or go fishing.

_It’s just you and me now, Blue. I’ll be your best friend._

His father took Blue outside and shot her that morning.

_DADDY! STOP IT! SHE’S MY FRIEND!_

Will screamed frantically, pushing him and trying to grab his arm. It was useless. She was dead.

In hindsight, Will came to understand that when a dog suffers, it is put down, but at eight, with no other friends of his own, he was devastated. From then on, whenever a stray would show up outside and beg for a piece of meat and a head scratch, Will took it in for himself. Anything to fill that desperate, lonely void. It was selfish, irresponsible even, but Will gave up on trying to be a good person a long, long time ago.

“No,” He spoke up finally, “Let me take her. I can keep her quiet.”

Hannibal looked at him for a while, trying to maintain his composure, “A child is not a dog.”

“I know that.”

“And wouldn’t be very conducive to our lifestyle.”

“I know.”

He sighed, unsure of how to resist Will and his incessant need to _care_ , “Help me dispose of her father.”

***

While Hannibal sauntered into the tiny corner store they’d found to pick up diapers and formula, Will resigned to staying in the car with the baby.

Will and Molly talked about having a baby a few times. They’d been married for over two years, Walter had just started the fifth grade and was becoming more responsible and independent.

 _I’ve always wanted a little girl_ , Molly would beam, _You know, you’d be an excellent father, Will._

 _We should wait another year_ , he’d always say when she brought it up, _I have to find my footing._

Molly understood. She always did, never once showing a single sign of discontent. 

If Will was a better man, it would have been easy to love her the way she deserved. If Will was a good man, he would’ve had no question about staying.

It seemed an ugly twist of fate to give to Will what others were more deserving of.

“I’m sorry,” he told the baby, who was nameless and still so new that Will was afraid to even touch her, “You were dealt a shitty hand, weren’t you?”

She didn’t make a sound or squirm this time, but she looked up at him with big blue eyes. They weren’t like Will’s own, they were softer and lighter in color.

Like—

No.

They looked like—

_No._

They reminded Will of—

**_No._ **

Will tried not to think about Abigail anymore, burying the guilt of failing her next to leaving Molly and Walter without a trace or a proper goodbye.

He didn’t like to think about her, but she came to him, still. In dreams, or the corner of his eye as he walked past a mirror. What would he say to her, if he could say anything? Would she listen?

For better or for worse, he’d made his bed here and now with Hannibal, somewhere in the southern part of France, with fake names, fake passports and fake lives. Days were made of hunting, making love and covering tracks. In his blind hedonism, Will let go of the guilt that once held him at every waking moment.

He wasn’t the same man he was when he’d made plans to teach Abigail Hobbs how to fish, or when he teared up the first time his stepson called him _Dad_.

He was something else entirely now.

“You’re either going to resent me someday, or you’ll be just like me,” Will rocked the baby gently, pitying her, “I couldn’t tell you which is worse.”

***

“She’ll sleep in this,” Hannibal instructed, pulling out an empty dresser drawer, “On the floor next to our bed.”

“That can't be safe, or comfortable.”

“Quite the opposite. Flat, hard surfaces protect against suffocation,” He positioned the drawer to where Will could easily reach for her in the middle of the night, “I remember asking my father the same question while our staff prepared Mischa’s nursery for her arrival.”

Will was always unsure of what to say during the rare times when Hannibal would mention his deceased sister.

“Won’t she get cold?” He asked, almost stupidly, to fill the silence.

“She couldn’t possibly, not in this heat.” Hannibal assured him, “I think, maybe, you’ve become attached to her and you don’t want to set her down, is that correct?”

“I worry about her being out of my sight.”

“And _I_ worry about _you_. Why are you placing all of the responsibility for her onto yourself?”

Will gave an awkward almost-shrug and frowned, “She’s only a baby.”

“A fresh life, a fresh start,” Hannibal knew how to see past any and all of his bullshit, “The do-over that you couldn't get with Abigail, or _that woman’s_ boy.”

_Oh for fuck’s—_

“—I am not entirely opposed to caring for her with you, my love,” he picked up, “I want so badly for you to be content here. Would this make everything better?”

“I hope it could.”

_Selfish? Check. Irresponsible? Check._

“Why don’t you put her to bed, then? We can find her a proper crib soon.”

“Could you show me how?” Will forced himself to chuckle dryly, “I’ve never done this.”

Hannibal smiled fondly and pushed his sleeves up, “It’s not difficult. Lower her gently. On her back. You cannot possibly hurt her.”

“She’s just so small,” he took a deep breath, “And new…”

“And tired. She’s had quite a day, hasn’t she?” Hannibal guided Will in the right direction, “Just like that, yes, very good.”

The two watched her in silence for a few minutes, taking in her presence, before Will spoke up, “I want you to pick out her name. You know a lot more than I do, and I’m no good at this kind of thing.”

“And here I always thought your dogs had charming names.”

“Winston couldn’t hate me for calling him, ‘Winston’. She could someday.”

Hannibal thought for a moment, “Do you believe in fate, Will?”  
“I really didn’t, until I met you,” Will admitted, “I always thought the idea of it was just _woo._ But I guess now I think, maybe, that everything that’s ever transpired between us was supposed to happen. I think we were always meant to be here, you know? The way we are. I don’t know how else I could explain it.”

“In mythology, fate is often associated with weaving,” Hannibal traced the edge of the makeshift cradle with his index finger, “Baltic Pagans in my motherland once believed in the _Deivės Valdytojos_ , the Governing Goddesses. They spun the threads of life, and Dalia, the goddess of fate, was responsible for the give and the take of one’s predestination. I think that should be fitting for her. Dalia. _Fate_.”

* * *

II.

_Céline,_

_Le réfrigérateur est entièrement approvisionné et étiqueté pour votre commodité. Faites ce que vous voulez pour le dîner. Geneviève mangera n'importe quoi, ce n'est pas une enfant difficile._

_Le lit d'hôtes est fait pour vous, nous ne prévoyons pas d'être plus d'une nuit._

_Geneviève ne devrait pas être un problème pour vous, elle se comporte très bien pour une bambine tant qu'elle a fait sa sieste._

_Si vous avez besoin de quelque chose,_ _appelez-moi._

_Souviens-toi, mon mari ne parle pas français._

_—Dr. Bouchard_

***

Their last hunt in France was bloodier, uglier than usual. The two fraternity brothers put up an admittedly very nasty fight, and Will wanted to make sure what was left of the two pompous assholes was mutilated beyond recognition. It seemed only fitting, after their nightmare hazing ritual left an underclassman pledge permanently blind and their parents’ money got them off with mere slaps on the wrist. 

“We’re not vigilantes,” Hannibal whispered closely to him during the five-hour train ride from _Bordeaux_ back to _Collioure_ , fresh organ meats packed away in their carry-ons, “You don’t need to suppress your nature, Will.”

“I’m not _suppressing_ anything.” He shot back, almost too quickly.

“It appears as though you’re trying to pick only ‘acceptable’ targets, either consciously or otherwise, and I don’t quite understand why.”

“Could you really blame me for wanting to get rid of two spoiled brats who blinded their friend for sport?”

Hannibal took a long, slow sip from his glass of _Carruades De Lafite_ , “Can’t say I do, my love. Try this,” He extended the glass towards Will and continued as he watched him give it a taste, “Anyways, I don’t believe in morality, only morale. The need to justify oneself is a double edged sword.”

Will made a face at the tart impact of the wine and passed it back, “What year is this one?”

“This? I’d say 2010. With the cedarwood and black currant notes, especially. It was a good late summer for the grapes. Don’t change the subject.”

“Why do we need to talk about it? You said I could pick who it was, so I did. That’s all.”

“And last time it was a corrupt politician, and before that, a priest. Not to mention, we’ve taken out enough wife-beaters to start an army.”

“No correlation. Could you please drop it now? I’m overwhelmed, this car is so... _bloated_ with people.”

Hannibal reached for his hand, “Do you even enjoy it anymore?”

“I’m not sure if I do or not,” Will admitted, “It’s just thatー” he trailed off.

“Just what, exactly?”

“ _Everything_ feels different than before. We get home, and I go to check on Dalia and she looks up at me with those huge, trusting eyes and I know that I’m _failing_ her.”

Hannibal arched a brow, “You’re projecting that much onto a three year old child?”

“I can’t stop thinking about what would happen if she ever found out about what you and I do together. It weighs on me more and more every year,” He exhaled sharply, “She’s already asking questions.”

“If she asks about anything, we should answer her honestly. I think there isn’t any logical reason for you to worry. She’s one of us, too.”

_One of us?_

Will felt himself go weak.

***

Dalia was in Will’s arms again and everything was better.

“I missed you,” he had to stop himself from saying her real name with the stranger still inside their home, “You have fun, darlin’?”

“Yes, daddy...!” she nodded, “You too?”

“Yeah,” He sighed and buried his nose in her sandy brown curls, “We had fun.”

From the great room, Will could make out Hannibal and Céline conversing. He was unable to understand their words, but he could hear panicked terror in the teenage girl’s voice, contrasting with the usual dissonant serenity of Hannibal’s, before the sound of mangled, labored struggle took over.

“You stay here, darlin’,” he planted Dalia on her feet, “Don’t you dare move an inch. Daddy needs to... _check something out_.”

Will quickly walked into the room and met them both. Hannibal’s hands were clasped firmly around her neck. He was strangling her slowly, savoring every second of watching her violently struggle against him as her brain succumbed to anoxia.

Hannibal turned his gaze to Will, “Your hunting knife is on the mantle above the fireplace, my love. Fetch it for me.”

When Will finished admiring the rich color of the young woman’s blood painting himself and his partner with the color of roses, wine and rubies, he glanced over at the door separating their child from the tableaux of horror and gore that he and Hannibal made together.

All at once, it seemed, the primal thrill of the hunt was back. It was beautiful again.

***

Will lightly traced small lines and patterns onto Hannibal’s bare chest with the tip of his finger.

 _My God,_ _he’s a work of art._

“Can we run away again?”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere. This whole town is suffocating me. It’s too picturesque.”

Hannibal ran a hand through Will’s damp curls, “Oh, I’ll take you anywhere you’d like, my love. Just allow _Dr. Bouchard_ to get the rest of his clients out of the way and you have a deal.”

“Mhm,” Will chuckled softly, “I will say, I think I’ll miss Bouchard. One hell of a lover, that one.”

“Ah. I’ll have to get rid of him as well, then. I can’t believe the bastard would do that to me.”

“Don’t worry. I still like you best.”

“And what a relief that is.”

Things felt almost normal. Normal couples made love before bed. Normal couples stayed up and laughed about silly things together.

But they were never normal, Will tried and failed at normal a million times. They were electric, intoxicating.

The two of them were _perfection_.

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Thank you,” Will murmured, “For everything.”

Hannibal met the other man’s lips and smiled sweetly against them.

* * *

III.

[ **The number you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message after the tone**.]

_Will, it’s me._

_It’s Jack. Jack Crawford._

_I...I…_

_Oh God, I don’t even know what to say._

[ **Deep Breath** ]

_I’m on my way to Toronto. I know you’re there with him._

_I’m not there on the job, I’m not bringing anyone, or anything._

_Just...give me a call, son. Let’s talk._

[ **Pause** ]

_You don’t have to do this for him anymore, you know._

[ **End** ]

***

Will played the message over and over again. Nervous, labored breaths came in and out of his lungs. Everything was real, but nothing felt like it. The cold sweat made the sheets stick to his feet, but he couldn’t get himself out of bed for what seemed like hours upon hours, just listening to Jack’s voicemail. Hannibal couldn’t know, naturally. 

Will didn’t want Jack to save him. It was such bullshit. Bait. His life with Hannibal wasn’t safe or stable, but it was _free_. He was born to be a hunter, he refused to ever live in a cage again.

On one hand, he would always be indebted to Jack. It was his professional concern for Will’s well-being that brought him and Hannibal together. At the same time, though, Will often wondered what would have become of him if Jack hadn’t pushed him to his limits time and time again. His actions, a testament of how little faith anyone once had in Will.

Will roused himself, walked to the bathroom, ripped the SIM card out of the phone and flushed it. He’d grab another from their seemingly endless supply of prepaids. He made sure to take a good, long look at himself in the mirror and remind himself that it could be worse. _So much worse._

***

From the top of the stairs, Will looked on at his family. Hannibal, sat at the piano, patience wearing thinner and thinner. Dalia, bored to tears with her music lesson and longing to go outside and climb a tree.

He watched her tiny fingers struggle to hit the right keys in the right order at the right time.

“You’re not listening to the notes, Dalia. Watch me. _Un-deux-trois-quatre-cinq-sept-huit-neuf_.”

Hannibal played the keys perfectly, with the precision and ease of a master.

“Now, you play.”

The six year old dented her eyebrows and flexed her fingers and tried her _damnedest_ to copy her father’s playing to no avail.

 _“Un-deux-trois_ —…”

 _“_ ** _Quatre_ **.”

“ _Papa_!” She whined, stopping in her tracks, frustrated that she didn’t get the desired result immediately, “I can’t do it. I give up.”

Hannibal flipped to another page in the sheet music, “I never want to hear you say that again, do you understand?”

“I hate piano…”

“Do you? How unfortunate.”

“Why do I have to learn to play? I’m good at everything else you make me do! Why do I have to do this?”

Will laughed to himself, softly. His little overachiever, who’d have conversations with Hannibal in perfect French, could recite all of the Greek and Latin roots from her Anatomy lessons by heart, and was eager to help out in the kitchen every night under her other father’s strict, watchful eye. 

“I understand that music theory can be difficult to learn,” Hannibal said coolly, “But you will thank me someday, when you’re an accomplished young woman. Now, begin again. If you get it this time, we can end this lesson early.”

Dalia took a deep breath and nodded quickly, determined to make it work.

_“Un-deux-trois-quatre-cinq-sept-huit-neuf.”_

She was wobbly, and the pace wasn’t quite there, but she did it this time and Will felt a swell of pride for his plucky little girl. 

“Excellent,” Hannibal beamed at her, “Now, French toast?”

Dalia kissed Hannibal on the cheek.

***

There was nothing like Autumn in Toronto. The frost hadn’t quite struck yet, but the cold air was crisp and the colors were magnificent. The city was crowned in halos of gold, orange and red. 

When Will was sure he was far enough away from home, he took out the shitty, prepaid phone and dialed the familiar number.

***

Will looked away, not meeting his old colleague’s eyes. It was getting dark in the rural patch of woods just barely outside of Elora, where Will agreed to meet Jack. The forest was vast, full of foliage, and _silent_. Jack was either a fool or he was plotting something. Either way, Will came prepared.

“What happened to you, Will?”

It was an honest, hopeful question.

“This was always how it was going to be, Jack,” he answered plainly, “Why did you track me down? How–? How did you find me?”

“I’m guessing you don’t check up on _TattleCrime_ much these days.”

_Fuck._

Jack pulled out his phone and showed Will a screenshot of a grainy, zoomed in picture. Will remembered that day, it was a blustery, rainy April. Will and Hannibal huddled their daughter under the umbrella so she wouldn’t catch cold. Thankfully, her face was completely obscured.

_Christ. We should have gotten rid of Freddie a long, long time ago._

“The headline was _Murder Dads._ Not very creative on Ms. Lounds’ part, though,” Jack chuckled bitterly. These past years still in the field aged him. He looked painfully tired, “Who’s the little girl, Will? What were you doing with her?”

“My daughter.” Will mumbled.

“Speak up.”

“She’s _my daughter_.” He repeated, taking the small picture of her out of his wallet to show, and quickly shoving it back in.

Jack wasn’t going to ask him how, or why. Not this time. He had to get to Will first.

“Beautiful child,” he frowned, “How old is she? What’s her name?”

“I’m not telling you anything about her,” Will snapped, “What do you want from me?”

“You were like a son to me for years, Will. I just wanted to see you safe and on your feet.”

“Ah, well, that’s bullshit.” He seethed, “Who do you think you are, Jack? You cared about what I could do for you. You dragged me out of my home and made me lose my mind for you time and time again, and I took the bait because I felt so–…”

Will paused, the words just barely hanging over his head, “So... _intrinsically flawed_ by design. I felt obligated. Look what it did to me.”

Jack tried to put a hand on Will’s arm but he flinched at the touch.

“Will, you are not like him. You are not what _he_ makes of you.”

“Oh? You still think this is just about Hannibal?”

“I know it is. I know…” he drew in a deep breath, “About you two. The nature of your... _relationship_ …”

“You can say it out loud, Jack.”

“I know what you did, too. In Europe. Back in the States. Here in Canada. I don’t know everything and I’m not sure of all the details, but it’s obvious that you’ve been hunting with him,” his worried expression softened to something almost paternal, “You might think you love him, but what you and him have is not love. Love is patient, and it’s kind.”

Will gritted his teeth, annoyed at Jack’s pretense, “And what would you know about that?”

“I know this isn’t you, son. You deserve better than this. You can still do the right thing,” he took a long, troubled breath, “Stop all of this. Help us and we can help you.”

_Don’t call me ‘son’. You **never** called me 'son'._

“You told me this wasn’t a set up, Jack Crawford.”

“And it isn’t. It’s a bargain,” He put both of his hands up for Will to inspect, “There’s no catch, Will, just let me make my case, _please_.”

“Alright. I trust your judgement enough.”

“I’ve worked with you long enough to know that you are an extraordinarily compassionate person. Your empathy is a gift. By your own nature you have an understanding of people that most do not. You can use it for good again. You can redeem yourself. You’re a brilliant man, your mind is brilliant, but unfortunately, so is Hannibal’s. He knows exactly how to crack the code and get people to do what he wants. If it wasn’t you, Will, it’d be someone else. He’s Lucifer. He’s the serpent with forbidden fruit. You can stop all of this right here.”

_If it wasn’t you, Will, it’d be someone else._

Will’s teeth clenched together.

“And if I give you what you want, could I go away and raise my daughter in peace?”

“For the safety of yourself and others, I can’t tell you that you’d be a free man, but I can promise you that you’d get the help you need. You don’t have to suffer anymore,” Jack’s eyes were gentle, “My brother and his wife over in Annapolis are looking to adopt a little girl. They’re fine people. I know they’d let her visit and write to you. I’d personally see to it that she’d be well educated and have every opportunity. How’s that sound?”

_You want to manipulate me, Jack Crawford? Appeal to my feelings?_

_I can play dirty too. You should know that by now._

Will nodded back at him, tears dripping down his pitiful face, and held out his arms desperately, “I just needed someone to understand me, to _love_ me.”

Jack pulled him close, “It isn’t love, Will. He can’t love. He doesn’t deserve yours.”

The knife entered Jack Crawford’s spinal cord from the back of his head, giving him one last second to hear Will speak, dry-eyed and perfectly composed.

“Hannibal Lecter would burn empires to the ground for me. _That’s_ love.”

***

It seemed like the back door took forever to unlock. Will’s hands were sweaty, caked with dried blood. He needed to be home. He needed to throw up, take a shower and sleep. He needed the fever dream to end. 

When he walked in, every light in the house was turned off. Pitch black. Will flipped the switch.

_No words._

Hannibal stood at the corner of the great room, one hand covering Dalia’s mouth, the other clutching a large cleaver to her throat.

“What were you doing with Jack Crawford, Will?”

There were no words in Will’s mouth.

He searched for them far and wide but only managed to breathe out, “Hannibal, _please_.”

“I’d like for you to tell me, if you could.”

“Take your hands off of her.”

He used the hand that muzzled Dalia to yank her hair back and expose more of her throat. She screamed. Her pain felt like a round of bullets to Will’s skin.

“What were you doing with **_Jack Crawford_ **, Will?”

“He’s in the trunk!” Will cried out, “He’s in the trunk of my car! I killed him, Hannibal! Let her go! Let her go, or I’ll kill you myself!”

He did so, finally, and she ran into Will’s arms, the two of them sinking to the floor.

“My first mistake,” Hannibal took the awful, suffering look of a martyr upon his face as he turned to stick the knife back into the block, “Was allowing you to love something more than me.”

***

It was past Dalia’s bedtime. She’d sleep in and her already delicate appetite would be upset, she’d be distracted during her lessons, and be in tears, needing to be held and doted on by the end of the day. It’d take at least two weeks to get her schedule sorted again. Dalia had always been a fragile child. 

Still, Hannibal knew that she wouldn’t yet be asleep. How could she sleep? It hadn’t been her first brush with death, but the first where she’d been cognizant of her own mortality. She had much to think about.

 _Every child should have a near-death experience_ , he’d tell Will in the morning, just to quell his nerves, _Posttraumatic growth is linked to higher levels of functioning._

He would never cut his own daughter’s throat. Not even at his most desperate. That move was reserved, sacred, and above all, too obvious.

It was about the spectacle, the sight of the knife hovering at Dalia’s little neck as she writhed and gagged and tears poured from her eyes and stained the sleeves of Hannibal’s shirt, the blade just inches away from critical territory.

It planted the right seed in Will’s mind. Her screams were the warning shot, and there was no question that Will would have lied if there wasn’t any incentive not to.

“Uncover your head, _Meilė_ , I know you’re awake.”

Dalia peeled her blanket off and peaked at him through her long eyelashes. She looked like a fresh, springtime fawn left alone for the first time, hiding in plain sight from man and beast alike. Vulnerable. A single, gentle touch from a well meaning stranger, and its mother would never return to reclaim it. Then, if it didn’t starve, it’d be taken out by a mountain lion or a coyote, eventually.

“You should acknowledge when someone has spoken to you,” he continued, “It’s rude to ignore people.”

“I did,” she whispered, “I did what you said.”

“Oh, _Meilė_ , you’re not upset, are you?” Hannibal asked her as though it were the most irrational reaction she could’ve had.

“I was really scared, papa.”

“Of?” He cocked his head.

“Dying.”

“You understand why I had to do that, right? I would never mar your pretty skin. I was only trying to teach your father a lesson. He needs a visual aid, sometimes.”

“I didn’t like it, papa.”

“You didn't do anything to stop me. All you did was cry.”

He took a seat at her bedside and lifted her face gingerly with his fingers, “Why didn’t you stop me, Dalia?”

“I don't know how,” She admitted, shamefully, “You’re big, and I’m just little.”

“I can show you exactly what to do, you know. If someone ever tried to lay a hand on you.”

“Will someone do that again?”

He smiled at her and shook his head sadly, “You’re so sweet and lovely, _Meilė_ , they’ll do much worse.”

* * *

IV.

_The Debutante Ball Society_

_Requests the honor of presenting_

_Ms. Audra Geneviève Briedis_

_Daughter of_

_Dr. Viktoras Briedis_

_ & _

_Mrs. Élodie Porcher_

_At the_

_80th International Debutante Ball_

_The nineteenth of December,_

_7 o’clock_ _sharp_

***

It was like something out of an old movie, Julie Andrews and Audrey Hepburn coming to mind. A perfect row of well-to-do young ladies in their identical white gowns and opera gloves. Their beaming parents networking amongst one another with cocktails in their hands.

The whole thing was viscerally disgusting to Will. It was a masterbatory display, wherein descending down a staircase in 3-inch Dior heels was a rite of passage into womanhood. A way for the obscenely wealthy to put their teenage daughters on display and announce to their peers, _Hey! My daughter is barely legal! Come scoop her up!_

Will couldn’t wait to spear one of them, to watch the haughty fall like Goliath. 

To Hannibal, the whole ordeal was pure theatre, just like the dinner parties and nights at the opera of his past. He had a knack for that sort of thing, and as they’d both come to find out, so did their daughter.

Dalia had just turned sixteen, younger than most of the other girls, but she was tall for her age, and elegant. She had an air of sophistication drilled into her by Hannibal that made her pass perfectly alongside the daughters of the most esteemed.

 _Audra Briedis_ was eighteen. _Audra Briedis_ was the sole heiress of two separate fortunes. Her father, an orthopedic surgeon by trade, came from old money in Eastern Europe. Her deceased mother, a lesser French Aristocrat, left her a sizable amount as well.

Will would play the role of stepfather.

“I don’t think I can keep up the act,” He confessed, as Hannibal tamed his wild hair with gel and helped him into his tux, “I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

“Follow my lead,” he dabbed cologne behind Will’s ears, leaning in and keeping his voice down, “It’s our daughter’s first hunt. It’s only fitting we make it an occasion.” 

“I’m still not sure that Dalia can do it.”

Hannibal placed a finger to Will’s lips and kissed him softly, but briefly, trying to soothe him.

“I’ve taught her well.”

Dalia emerged from the hallway, needing help with her zipper, so grown up that it made Will’s stomach hurt. 

“I don’t look silly, do I, daddy?” She smoothed out the bodice of her dress with gloved hands, “I've never worn anything this nice before.”

“You look–…” Will paused and took her face into his hands, reaching for the words.

 _“Stunning_ ,” Hannibal interceded, “Not a hair out of place. I’ve got one last thing for you.”

Will let her go so Hannibal could hang teardrop shaped diamonds from her ears and neck, “My late mother’s,” he explained, “I’ve held onto them for too long.”

Dalia wrapped her arms around her father and held onto him. Will wished it could always be like that. Their daughter’s love was pure and good. She hadn’t crossed over just yet.

The ballroom of the hotel was opulent beyond anything Will could’ve ever imagined. The energy was overwhelming. He watched Dalia mingle with the other girls, wondering how she could make such heartfelt connections with people she’d never see or hear from again.

Will sent Hannibal to get him a drink. Hannibal came back with an older, balding man and his withdrawn, bottle-blonde wife. 

“ _Charles_ , _darling_ ,” Hannibal beamed at Will, “This is Richard Norton and his wife, Betty. Mr. and Mrs. Norton, this is my husband, Charles.”

The man extended a large, sweaty hand for Will to shake, “Dr. Briedis was just telling us about his work abroad.”

“Please, Richard, Dr. Briedis was my father,” Hannibal patted the man on his back before taking his seat next to Will, “Call me _Viktoras_.”

Will took a sip of his neat scotch, “Is your daughter a debutante?”

“No,” the woman spoke up quietly, “Charlotte’s _deb_ was years ago. She was married in June. We’ve been invited tonight because of our charitable contribution.”

“Our belated congratulations,” Hannibal put a hand on Will’s leg from under the table, causing him to stir slightly, “I’m sure she made a lovely bride.”

“That she did,” the man smiled, “Well, congratulations to you too, Viktoras. This is quite an exciting night, and your daughter...my, oh my. She sure is _something_.”

There was a glint in the man's eye that made Will’s blood boil. He took a long, slow drink to calm himself.

“Yes, she is, isn't she?” Hannibal sunk his nails into Will’s inner thigh, “It’s a shame that her mother couldn’t see her tonight.”

The man’s plastic-faced wife leaned in, “How did you and your husband meet, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Would you like to tell that one, _dear_?” Hannibal turned to Will.

“I’d better not, _sweetheart_. My memory is less _refined_ than yours, I’m afraid.”

“Very well,” he smiled politely at the other couple, “Charles was a resident medical student, I was his attending physician. We quickly became very fond of one another’s company.”

Will cut in, “His wife wasn’t very happy, though, as you can imagine.”

Hannibal squeezed Will’s hand so hard that he felt it throb, “We’ve been together for twelve years, now. Almost.”

“But,” Will bit the inside of his own cheek until it bled, “When you know you’re meant to be with someone, you know. Regardless of where you are when you meet them, you’ll end up in their arms soon enough. Love can be so _tricky._ ”

The man raised his martini, “Cheers to that!”

***

_Audra Geneviève Briedis from Toronto Ontario, Canada, escorted by her father, Dr. Viktoras Briedis._

Hannibal guided Dalia towards the presenter.

_Miss Briedis is eighteen years old, a classical pianist, lead soprano in the Toronto Children’s Chorus and fluent in French, German and Latin. A merit scholar, Miss Briedis has graduated at the top of her senior class and plans on attending the University of Cambridge with a double major in Pre-medical Psychology and Contemporary French literature._

Dalia curtsied for the presenter, not a hair out of place or a stumble from the ridiculous shoes she wore.

Will studied his daughter’s face, made up like a doll’s and illuminated by the heavy lights. She was still a little girl, yet she _wasn’t_. He wanted her to be six years old again, to crank her music box for her as he tucked her in at night, and listen to her wobble through her scales on the piano, and carry her through the woods on his shoulders after a fishing trip by the lake. Soon she would not need him at all.

***

When the presentation was done, and it was time for the ball, it felt like a weight had been lifted from Dalia’s shoulders. No more did she have to agonize over performing her curtsy perfectly. It was time for the fun part.

She recognized Mr. Norton, the man who’d spoken with her fathers earlier, at the bottom of the stairs.

_Waiting for me?_

“Miss Briedis,” he smiled warmly at her, “Congratulations.”

“Yes, thank you, sir.” 

She began to leave and he stepped out front of her, blocking her way.

“I spoke to your father before presentations. What a privilege that was, he’s a remarkable man.”

“Yes, I think so too.”

“And what a beautiful diamond,” he reached for the necklace, taking it in between his fingers, “Antique?”

“It was my mother’s,” Dalia did her best to ruin the mood, “Before she passed. It was her dream to see me wear it at my debut.”

“When did she pass?”

“Two years ago,” Dalia began to get agitated, “It’s still a little fresh, I don’t like to—…”

He let go of her necklace and put his hand on the small of her back.

She didn’t like that at all.

“Why don’t we go out to the balcony and have some champagne?”

“Oh, I’m too young,” she peered at him demurely through her eyelashes, “Daddy would smell it on me, anyways. He knows a good import from miles away.”

“Come, come,” the man smirked, eyeing the young girl as if she were a confection, “It’s a special occasion, anyways. You’re officially a woman, now, Miss Briedis.”

_If I have to choose someone._

“ _Audra_ , thank you.” She offered him her hand and he led her astray from the party and crowds.

Late night in the city sparkled, so did the champagne. Dalia inspected the drink before she finally took a dainty sip. It tasted like stars.

“You’ve had an interesting life, haven’t you, Audra?”

“How do you mean?”

“Your family, all of your accomplishments.”

“Yes, well,” she drained the delicate flute, her mind becoming fuzzy, “I try.”

“Ha,” he laughed, “It’s really not every day that someone’s father leaves their mother for another man, either.”

“I was little. They did their best to keep me out of their business,” she frowned, “Did you take me out here so you could make fun of my father for being gay, Mr. Norton?”

“Of course not!” He put his hands up defensively, “I only meant that it’s not very often something like that happens in such a high profile marriage.”

“Well, my parents were always very private people,” Dalia began to feel faint, her vision blurring, “And—…”

_Oh._

She dropped the flute of champagne from the balcony and just barely made out the shape of it falling onto the city, “Mr. Norton, I—…”

“Shh,” he caught her when she finally stumbled out of consciousness, “Just relax.”

***

The minute the elevator doors were open and empty, Hannibal shoved Will inside, using his free hand to press every button imaginable as he pushed him against the wall, making sure the metal bars dug into his back.

“You’ve been testing me all night, _Doctor Lecter_ ,” Will whispered, “Is this what you wanted?”

“Among other things, yes,” he sunk his teeth into Will’s neck, “You embarrassed me with that _wife_ comment, you know.”

“Have I offended the dead wife who doesn’t exist?” 

“Made me look uncouth, like the kind of man who’d be unfaithful to the mother of his child.”

“Oh, you,” he reached for the buttons of his shirt, “So _pious_ , aren’t you? Just a _saint._ Please, you couldn’t keep your hands off of me.”

Hannibal slipped his thigh in between Will’s legs so he could press himself against it as he pulled him closer, “How was I supposed to?”

“Wait,” Will put a cautious hand on Hannibal’s chest, “Stop. Something feels wrong.”

***

When Dalia woke up, the lights from the city were a blur. It was freezing. The windows were cracked open, letting tiny snowflakes swirl inside the room.

To her horror, she was undressed, left only in her silk chemise, but the scalpel her father gave her was still strapped to her thigh and she recognized the familiarity of her own hotel room.

_This was a bad dream. Too much champagne, I turned in early. That’s it._

“It’s nice to see you’ve woken up.”

Her chest heaved.

“Mr. Norton?” She sounded like a little girl, “How did you get into my room?”

It wasn’t the first question she should have asked then, but it was the only thing she could think to say. 

“Your key was in your clutch, Audra,” he said casually, “Luckily, I’ve found it for you.”

She could barely speak, “Did you _take advantage_ of me…?”

“Goodness, no,” he laughed, “I’ve no interest in unconscious little girls. I prefer more of a challenge, you know. I like to see the _struggle_.”

“It’d ruin you,” she said quickly, “My father would have your head.”

“Sweet, silly girl,” he smiled at her, “What an endearing little ploy. Let me tell you something for future reference. There is no wealthy family of socialites named _Porcher_ in France. There is no loaded dynasty of _Dr. Briedises_ anywhere in Eastern Europe. Least of all any practicing surgeons in Metropolitan Canada with a gay lover, a dead wife and a precocious, irresistible teenage daughter. What are you all after? Money? I’m not going to pretend like I know what your deal is, and I don’t care to know. What I _do_ know is that you’re completely vulnerable to me. If you tried to tell anyone, it’d just unravel all of your lies and the three of you would go straight down with me. You wouldn’t want to do that to your _daddies_ would you?”

Dalia thought of her parents, longing for them both more than she ever had before. They were all she had. She owed everything to them. They’d know what to do. They could fix this. 

_But they’re not here._

“Just get it over with, then.” she managed to breathe out, fighting the urge to scream and cry and scratch as he kissed her jawline.

_I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this._

His wandering hands on her body made her feel sick to her stomach. She’d never so much as kissed a boy her age and shuddered as Mr. Norton scaled up her torso with his fingers, nauseatingly slowly.

She slowly hiked up her slip and unbuckled her garter.

“Oh, I’ll be quick,” He pawed at her chest, with one hand and moved the other up her inner thigh, just barely crossing the border into dangerland, “I always am.”

“I can be quicker.” Dalia whispered, dragging the scalpel across his throat, puncturing his jugular at just the perfect angle, so he had time to realize just how he would die before he slipped away.

It didn’t feel like she thought it would. There was no empowerment. No feeling of release, or euphoric high. 

She was still cold. She had still been violated. She was still on her own for the first time with no idea how to go on, no idea what to do about the blood ruining the perfect, white sheets and her expensive white gown, still crumpled on the floor from where he tore it off of her.

Alone and stained. Stained red forever.

_You’re so sweet and lovely, Meilė, they’ll do much worse._

And for the first time in a long, long time, Dalia felt six years old and small again, covered by the learned helplessness that once kept her alive. 

She took a glance at the scalpel she clutched tightly in her hand, acid bile rising from the pit of her stomach, and knew then that it was far too much to bear.

***

They arrived at their daughter’s room almost too late. They saw it _all_.

The ruined bedding. The dress on the floor. The face-down corpse. Dalia in her underwear, breathing, but just barely. The pool of blood gathering at her wrist and spilling onto white satin.

Will couldn’t move. His feet stayed firmly planted to the ground and his eyes transfixed on the scene. He wanted to run to her, envelop her in his arms and carry her away from this whole place. Where there was once a tall, confident young woman on the cusp of adulthood, proudly taking her place at the stage, now there was only the same helpless baby that Will carried home in a swaddle of blankets.

Endless ideas came to mind of the number of hideous things that _pig_ could have done to her, his own child, and he couldn’t stop it. He was powerless this time.

“Will,” Hannibal remained calm, “Get me some towels from the bathroom.”

_This isn’t real._

Will watched him try to stop her pathetic little wrist from bleeding out, unable to get out of his head the mental picture of her in the moment where she decided that going on wasn’t worth it and desperately struck her little purple veins with the same tool that she used to free herself from her assailant.

The phantom feeling of the blade’s sharp, white-hot kiss pulsated from the inside of Will’s own wrist.

“Will _,_ **_now_**. _”_

_This isn’t real. This isn’t real._

He felt drunk, stumbling to the bathroom. He managed to get the towel and make his way back, shoving it at Hannibal with all the strength he had left.

_This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real._

“Tell me she’s not—…”

“She cut horizontally. She’s lost blood, but there’s no question that she’ll live.”

Will caught his breath, “And him?”

“You know what to do. Put him in my empty luggage. If he doesn’t fit, _rearrange_ him as needed,” Hannibal instructed, “And find some hydrogen peroxide. We’re going to need a lot of it.”

* * *

V.

_Daddy! Daddy! I caught one! Look! I’m just like you!_

Dalia’s tiny hands yanked at the line so she could show Will the little minnow she’d strung up.

_Hey, that’s good, darlin’! Go ahead and put that one in the cooler._

She frowned, scrunching her perfect little nose and denting her eyebrows.

_Won’t he die, though?_

Will sighed.

_Yes, Dalia, he’ll die. That’s generally how this works._

He watched her unhook the lure, taking the cold, floppy fish and tossing it back.

_I don’t want him to die, daddy._

Will took her face into his hands and kissed her forehead. At four, she was too sweet for words.

How could he ever tell her where the dinner on her plate every evening came from?

_Hey. Why don’t you throw them all back, darlin’? They don’t have to die. Not today, at least._

***

Will caught Dalia staring at her new scar.

It was still fresh, and held together by the stitches Hannibal put in. The imperfect, raised flesh sutured in black thread stuck out painfully against her fair skin.

_Show her you care._

“Hey,” he took a spot next to her, just happy that she was out of bed, “You think you can keep something down?”

“No.”

_Change the subject._

“What are you reading?”

Dalia picked up the latest _Vogue Paris_ from her lap and flashed it to him without a word.

“Well, that’s definitely not your history book.”

“And?” Her tone was sardonic, “What’ll you do? Expel me?”

Will didn’t like the way she spoke to him. He knew that she was still hurting, but it was never like her to hold grudges. It was never in her nature to be scornful.

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” she stood up and began to walk away, not once looking back at him, “I was just leaving, thanks.”

“Get back here. _Now_ ,” he growled, surprised by his newfound ability to be angry with her, “You’re not going back upstairs to hide in your room. You’ve done that for days.”

“I have to,” she turned to face him, he never noticed just how worn-down she looked lately, “I’m really tired, dad.”

“Of course you’re tired, Dalia! You’re _starving_. Maybe if you would just eat—…”

“I’m telling you, I can’t!”

“That’s bullshit. What’s going on with you?!”

“I don’t know!”

“You're not acting like yourself, Dalia, it’s scaring me. Look at me,” he reached for her, “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t want him _inside of me_.”

***

Hannibal once told Will that their daughter was just like the two of them, and maybe, to an extent, she was.

Dalia was intelligent, always a quick learner. She was polite, gracious and eager to please, which was why Hannibal loved to parade her around. He was so eager to show off his bright, beautiful, vivacious child. She would become a living testament to his excellence. His very own _protégée_. 

That was where Hannibal had miscalculated.

Dalia wasn’t a ruthless enfant terrible. She was not Drusilla Minor or Claudia de Pointe du Lac, and she was definitely not Abigail Hobbs. She was sensitive, she _felt_. She took on Will’s task of rehabilitating any abandoned or sick animal she found. Any classic of the literary canon or impassioned performance at the theatre would move her to tears. All attempts made to mold her into something akin to Hannibal and Will, a killer, a _predator_ , were futile.

***

The medical steel cut through each tiny stitch. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Dalia winced as the thread was pulled out.

“I take it the feeling has come back?” Hannibal inspected her now-unbound forearm, gently moving it backwards and forwards before letting it go, “That’s good news. It means that the nerve damage wasn’t permanent.”

“It’s tingly,” Dalia traced her new scar lightly with her index finger, “Why is it tingly, papa?”

“Withdrawal. Your body craves the release,” he looked her in eye, “Don’t do it again.”

“It felt like there wasn’t anything else,” she looked away, “I wanted it all to be over with.”

“If you hurt your father like that again, _Meilė_ , it will be. That is not a threat.”

She swallowed hard, “I thought you both left me. I was alone with him.”

“Why did you go back there, Dalia? You’re a very good, smart girl. You’re good at reading between the lines, I know you could tell that he was attracted to you,” He almost frowned, “And yet you took a drink from him.”

“How could I have known?”

“ _Meilė_ , don’t be foolish.”

His words were a slap in the face. She’d spent every waking moment retracing her steps from that night and mapping out how, if she could just go back in time, she would have avoided it. 

She’d do anything to erase the shadow of his hands on her body.

“You think it was my fault.”

“I think you’re a naïve little girl, and I think your father has sheltered you too much. Next time, we’ll—…”

“—There won’t be a next time, papa. I don’t want to do it.”

“Don’t interrupt me. We’ll discuss this later, all of us.”

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something for a while, papa. Just me and you.”

“What is it?”

Her expression was bleak, pathetic, even, “Do you regret letting him keep me?”

“ _Oh_ ,” he put a cloying hand on her cheek, “You’ve disappointed me greatly, I admit, but I adore you, _Meilė_. Truly, I do.”

She watched him turn, unlock his medical supply cabinet and produce a glass bottle of medicine, pouring out a capful.

“Lorazepam. For your anxiety. It treats nausea and decreased appetite, as well. Don’t even court the idea of complaining.”

He spooned the thick, chalky liquid into her mouth like she was still little, watching her like a hawk, hand firmly planted under her chin until she swallowed.

It tasted like dirty coins. Blood.

It seemed Dalia couldn’t escape from blood if she tried. It was in her mouth, spilling from her teeth and gums. It dripped down from her nose and splashed onto the pages of her books while she did schoolwork at the breakfast table. It came up from the back of her throat as she’d kneel before the toilet, praying to not be heard. It ran down her legs in the shower. It abruptly stained her sheets once a month.

It was everywhere. In her dreams. In papa’s kitchen. On all of their hands. 

She could taste it even if it wasn’t there, in shades of iron, rust, salt and copper. It made her gag. If she blinked too long or too fast, the room would become splattered with it, if only for a split second. It was chasing her. 

***

Dalia watched a spider climb up the far corner of the dining room’s paneled walls, returning to her web.

Only female spiders spun silk, she remembered from a biology lesson when she was ten. Each spinneret gland produced a special type of silk thread for each intended purpose. Their design was intricate and intelligent.

 _Latrodectus_ , Black widows, had the right idea. The females would eat their male counterparts after reproduction. The scent of their feed would linger on them, a warning to the other males.

 _Do_ _not touch me. Do not come near me. I am not for your consumption, you are for_ ** _mine_** _._

Dalia wondered if that happened to her, too.

If someone tried to come too close, would they smell Richard Norton’s blood?

The spinner, Arachne was only a girl, but could weave a tapestry more perfect than any man or God. Athena denigrated her for her pride, torturing her, and in her shame, Arachne hanged herself. For these transgressions, she became the first spider. Her joints snapped and her legs multiplied, twisting and contorting painfully as she lost control over her mind and body. 

Medusa, raped in the temple of her Goddess, was cursed to be a murderous creature with a head full of snakes and eyes that could turn any man into stone. Punished for the crime of victimhood. Perseus became a hero when he hunted her for sport.

The Lithuanian Goddess of fate for whom Dalia was named wasn’t giver or taker but _enforcer._ Dievas, the ruling God, allotted fate to every mortal life, and Dalia carried out his plans whether she wanted to or not. 

She understood now.

Papa made a God of his lover when he led him to kill. Killing turned men into Gods. It made them powerful, invincible, _beautiful_.

Dalia did not become a Goddess when she killed her assailant.

Arachne became a spider, Medusa became a Gorgon and Dalia became something even more monstrous—

Woman.

***

Will took note of how his daughter swam in a down jacket that fit perfectly just last month, and how her teeth chattered and her glassy eyes couldn’t seem to focus on anything.

Dalia wrapped her arms around her torso, trying anything just to find relief from the cold outdoors. Snowflakes kissed her lips, cheeks and eyelashes. She looked half girl half ghost, slowly dying right in front of Will, and he didn’t know how to make it stop.

Hannibal wrapped his own scarf around Dalia’s neck and the lower half of her face, covering her nose and mouth with wool, “I’m proud of you, _Meilė_ ,” he placed both hands on her shoulders, “This time will be different.”

Will wasn’t clueless. He knew that she’d rather shove needles right into the soft, pink flesh beneath her fingernails than accompany them on a hunt, but the three of them needed to do this together, and Will wasn’t ready to leave Dalia by herself for a long, long time.

Hannibal had his eye on this one for a while. Marc Pelletier. A man in his seventies who lived off the grid in a saltbox house, right in the middle of the woods. Hannibal decided him an ideal candidate for Dalia. He’d be easy to take out.

“Can you do it?” Will whispered closely to her, “You know you don’t have to.”

“I know I can.”

Hannibal produced the straight razor he used to shave his face and struck Dalia just under her left cheekbone, leaving a deep, weeping cut, muffling her with his hand before she could cry out.

“The plan, Will?”

Just as he rehearsed, Will laid it out for her.

“You’re going to knock on Mr. Pelletier’s door like your life depends on it. Crying, just hysterical, can you do that? He’sー...he’s a good man. He’ll invite you in. While he goes to another room to get you a bandage, you’re going to unlock his door. We’ll take it from there, darlin’.”

She nodded back, startled tears spilling from her eyes.

“Good, good,” he glanced up at Hannibal, “I think she’s ready.”

Hannibal met his eyes, not yet taking his hands off of their daughter, “I’m letting you go now, Dalia. You must do _exactly_ as you were told. I think you know better than to take any chances. Everything must be intentional, even the smallest misstep has consequences.” He released her, the fresh blood from her wound had trailed, leaving its sticky residue down her face and clothes.

Will watched her move unsteadily in the direction of the little house hidden deep in the barren winter forest, alone again, with nothing but his hunting knife hidden in the pocket of her coat.

***

Marc Pelletier had kind eyes. He opened the door for Dalia, deeply concerned for the pale, bleeding girl who stood before him, gasping for air.

“Do you need to call someone, honey? Are you safe?” He’d asked, handing her a wet cloth from the kitchen.

Dalia could hardly bear her own weight, or look away from the flashes of aural light she could see dancing in the air whenever her head buzzed with another shock of pain.

“No,” she crumpled into the chair he pulled out for her, “I can’t call anyone. I am not safe.”

“What might I do to help you?”

Dalia felt more shame than she ever had in her short sixteen years. It was easier in theory. In her mind, she could help her parents kill a million nameless, faceless people. They weren’t human. They weren’t real. 

_He wants to help me, really, truly._

For a moment, Dalia entertained the thought of confessing, telling him everything. Telling the police. Letting go of the stress and the guilt of holding the knowledge of their secret world on her frail shoulders. Being free.

 _No_. She couldn’t make it on her own. They were all she had, all she ever knew.

“Could you get me a bandage, sir?”

Her eyes darted to the back door and she stood up, almost getting up to go and unlock it but deciding against it.

_I will not be their bait._

She reached into her pocket.

***

The back door was locked. The back door was locked and Will could feel himself recoil.

_What have we done?_

Like clockwork, his mind traveled to one of its worst places, where the gravity of every situation was real and he could feel everything hit him like a freight train. 

He gave a forceful, well placed kick to the door, a skill that he picked up during his time in law enforcement, but it wasn’t enough.

“Help me break it down…!” 

Hannibal put a hand on Will’s chest, “She might be stalling him, still. I highly doubt she would risk anything happening to her again.”

“I know my own daughter, Hannibal,” He gave another kick, “She’s…trying to prove herself. She’s not going to give up without a fight. We made her like that.”

“So we let her. I’m failing to see a problem here, my love.”

“No, we _show her_. She still needs us,” Will swallowed harshly, “ _Both_ _of us_.”

The third kick to the door did the trick and the old, damp wood fell in, splitting in two.

There she was, knife in hand and man down.

“I did it,” she rasped, “I did it, dad.”

Will turned to Hannibal, waiting to see what an appropriate response was.

“ _Meilė_ ,” Hannibal scowled, “I believe I told you what you were meant to do for us.”

“Papa, I wanted to show you that–…”

“That’s not the point. You had an order from your fathers, and yet, you disobeyed.”

“I only meant–…”

“Even after that unfortunate happening at the debutante’s ball, too. I thought you’d learned your lesson. It’s a pity, really,” he shook his head, “Maybe if you’d behave, you wouldn't have made a victim of yourself.”

“Don’t tell me to behave,” Dalia hissed, pointing the knife right at him, “Maybe if _you_ weren’t in my ear telling me to _be polite_ , _be a lady_ , _don’t be rude_ , I would’ve been able to tell the strange man offering me a drink that night to _fuck off_!”

There was a wild, savage look in her eyes. This was a mistake. This whole thing was a vile, vile mistake and Will knew it, too. 

“Dalia, that’s quite enough,” Hannibal began to warn her, his voice still even, “Put down your father’s knife. Come here so we can take care of the body.”

“ _No_ ,” She dented her eyebrows, like she always did when she felt undermined, “ _I’m_ going to do it. He was my kill.”

She made her incision down the thoracic cavity before throwing the knife aside and peeling off her leather gloves. Her bony fingers clawed at either side of the ribcage, gradually peeling back layers and layers of muscle and tissue. She worked at it rapidly, without any rhyme or reason, lacking Hannibal’s elegance and attention to detail.

Will couldn’t look. It was pure child’s play compared to the things he’d seen from Hannibal, but he didn’t have the stomach to watch it be done by the little girl who used to make sure that she kissed all of her stuffed animals Goodnight so they wouldn’t get jealous of one another.

It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her. 

Dalia was running on empty. Dalia’s brain was deprived of everything it needed to function. Dalia was traumatized. Dalia was on autopilot, and when she was back to normal, she’d be horrified.

This wasn’t his daughter. His daughter had rosy skin, soft eyes and tinges of gold in her chestnut hair. The spindly figure, talons deep into her fresh kill was as white and colorless as a sheet. Her eyes were blank and dull. 

“Darlin’,” it came out as barely more than a whisper, “Get over here, darlin’. That’s enough of that. You can rest. We can go home now.” 

When Will’s words went straight over his daughter’s head, he turned to Hannibal, grabbing his arm harshly.

“Don’t you think this has gone on long enough—…?”

Hannibal continued to look on as Dalia ripped the still-beating heart from her prey and sunk her teeth into it, completely drenching herself in blood.

He could hear her retching and choking on sobs as she forced it down. He felt the weight of her pain. She did not want this. She was trying to prove a point, trying to show her parents something that she couldn’t tell them.

_I am trying to be just like you._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped me throughout the five long months that I worked on this thing (aaannddd it's still not even finished...damn the awful perfectionist that I am...) and gave me questions, comments, inspo, tips and just supported me in general!
> 
> It means a lot that people would even take a glance at my work. So much of me goes into these works, so sending them out into the world can be intimidating and it just means a lot to me that fandom, at its best, is such a communal space. Thank you again! I am so grateful for you, dear reader.
> 
> Horror as a genre has always meant a great deal to me, as a woman, because it works so well as a vehicle to explore and represent the complicated, layered pain of female trauma. This started out as a self indulgent, fluffy fic about Hannibal and Will taking in a baby girl, but I felt as though leaving it at that would be a disservice to these characters I love, and to this show that means so much to me.
> 
> There will be more to come, but in the meantime I would love to have discussions with you in the comments! Talk murder dads to me!
> 
> It would make my heart very happy if you'd consider getting me a hot chocolate, if you enjoy my work: https://ko-fi.com/eachnighteachmorning


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